


with the tide

by fallenghosts



Category: Bunheads
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenghosts/pseuds/fallenghosts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future AU. She's been lost in the water for too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with the tide

**Author's Note:**

> Sasha is in her 20's. I did some research but you'll have to forgive the inaccuracies of any of the ballet terms. I had a lot of fun with this, there may be more of this AU posted separately.

 

She starts in LA then travels; New York, London, Berlin, Moscow. She stays in Russia until the language doesn’t sound quite so harsh on other people’s tongues. Until she can’t feel the nervous prickling at the back of her neck. The first sign of ‘this will not end well’.

‘ _Sasha- Where are you going? What are you running from?_ ’

But she can’t run. Not in Russia, where everyone is watching you, the principal of the visiting company.

‘ _Myself, then. Is that a good enough answer for you?_ ’

In the back of her head, she can hear the echo of a door slam, a headache building anew.

 

  
It’s a lot like drowning, that first night. All those lights on her, beaming hot and melting into her eyes.

She is caught again, eager eyes fixed on her. Sasha sets her jaw and prepares to bear the weight of expectation.

The music starts and wakes her, fighting against the current, hoping to find the shore soon.

 

The Russians whisper behind her back, thinking that she’s just this slow American girl that doesn’t remember the meaning of words they use too often. Their lips form thin lines as she gets more performance time, more solos. She shakes her shoulders loose, stands taller when they think they can look right through her.

Let them hate her. Hate is easy, it’s love that she doesn’t understand.

 

She comes back after five years in Europe, touring with a company and studying the flow of bodies and music. She doesn’t want to be a choreographer but it catches her interest, makes her look twice at the way other women move and pause.

Sasha finds herself watching the curves of bare shoulders, the way backs tense and relax.

She makes a stop in Paradise after her father’s funeral in San Jose, thinking she had more in common with the stranger than they both knew. Too bad it was always too late for that.

Her mother catches her eye once or twice, doesn’t even say a word in passing. They cross to opposite sides of the cemetery after all is said and done, heading back to their cars.

It aches in her chest, but pain is dull now and Sasha has learned how to will the feeling away.

 

 

She still has that sweater, from the day she ran away to Los Angeles. It was supposed to be for good. But Michelle chased her to the bus depot two counties away and gave her a sweater, and they both pretended they wouldn’t.

Sasha looked back as the bus drove off, holding her bag so hard her fingers turned white.

It doesn’t smell like her anymore, but she carries it with her anyway.  


 

Michelle isn’t there, waiting for her at the studio. Everyone else is gathered around; Fanny, Ginny, Melanie and even Boo. They smile at her and want to know how she is, what she’s been up to. But she finds herself staring at the open door, hoping for that familiar voice that would make everyone stop and turn.

_“Am I late?”_

She ducks her head and bites her tongue, she laughs at the right times. She clenches at her hands as the evening turns to night and people turn to leave.

“Thank you, Madame Fanny.”

“We’ve all missed you, my dear.”

Sasha smiles again and zips her sweater, turning to leave as well. The guest house is right there but she won’t look, she doesn’t want to know.

 

Sasha flies out to New York when asked, a last minute opportunity to keep moving. Rehearsals start in two days and there is a studio apartment waiting for her, cold and empty like the rest of the city holding out through the storm.

She drops the same suitcase she’s carried since she left that first time, clattering on the floor. Her shoes stay at the door, dripping snow on the mat that was already there.

She makes coffee and stands in her sparsely furnished room, looking out at Manhattan below her, strange and grey. And never quite waking up.  


 

Most days, she stays in the studio long after the other dancers have gone, if only to have space to breathe the way her little apartment won’t let her. She can work here, ballet is what has kept her afloat for so long.

Sasha has a long, thin form and clean, sharp lines that cut through the air of the studio. Michelle has to stop herself, breath caught in her lungs to the point that it aches, to remember that this is Sasha, from Paradise. Not this stranger that makes Michelle’s eyes follow every single move she makes across the room, like she commands it.

She paces, goes through some of the motions of a pas de deux in the otherwise empty room, lost deep in thought. She doesn’t even notice an onlooker, the familiar set of shoulders moving into the door frame.

Her arms are raised, looking into the mirror when the door creaks another inch, frozen in place. Like she’s seen a ghost of her past.

 

“What are you doing here?” Michelle hides her hands in her pockets, stepping further into the room, one foot after the other.

“I have a show…” Sasha bites her lip, resting her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”

“Same.” Michelle crooks her head, “…I thought you were in Germany?”

“I was done with Germany a _long_ time ago.” Sasha forces a smile, remembering for a moment before she stops herself, walking over to the door and searching her bag as a distraction.

“You haven’t been in one place for more than a few months, huh?”

“Yeah. We’re both good like that,” Sasha zips her bag closed and waits, putting on another layer. “We get bored then we move along.”

Her shoulders shrug from under the bulky winter jacket she doesn’t fill in completely. And Michelle leans forward onto her feet, ready to leave, already looking down the empty hallway.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

For that, she is rewarded with a half-smile. They part ways and Sasha simply lets it happen, slipping out of her grasp no matter how hard she wants to hold on.

 

On opening night, she stops herself from searching the audience, instead taking the last minutes to check her hair, her costume. A man with a headset and clipboard passes by, pointing out to the curtain.

She tugs on her sleeves, takes a deep breath, and dives in.  


 

After the show, Sasha lets her hair down, ties her boots out by the backstage exit. The tap on her shoulder jolts her and her natural scowl returns, fading as quickly as it appears.

“That was amazing, Sasha.” Michelle leans against the wall, folds her arms over her chest. But she furrows her brow after a second, “Is that my sweater?”

“Yeah, I’m… Sorry” The words are unsure, clipped and short. She holds it out, still folded carefully, one arm extended forward. “Here, take it.”

Michelle smiles and shakes her head, “No, it’s yours now.”

When Sasha stands, they are both at even height. She shrugs her bag to rest more comfortably on her shoulder, confused. When the other dancers pass them by, they are too absorbed in their own lives to notice the way Michelle inches closer.

She reaches and brushes her thumb over Sasha’s cheek, palm warm against her face. Sasha almost misses the words that come after, intently watching the curve of Michelle’s lips forming into a sad smile once more.

“I missed you.”

 

  
“I’ve got a flight to California tomorrow morning…” Michelle lingers behind her, looking around the rest of the hallway where Sasha has been staying. “Fanny wants me to take over classes for a while.”

It’s Sasha’s turn to shake her head, pulling her keys out of her pocket. She opens the door for Michelle and lets her in first, lets her examine as much as she wants. But Michelle doesn’t pass the corner, like she’s waiting for something now.

“ _Stay._ ” Sasha doesn’t want to be unsure, asking. She wants to tell Michelle, the way same way she couldn’t when she was eighteen and clutching a bus ticket in her hand. “Don’t go.”

She lets herself sink now, taking a few steps forward to stand in Michelle’s space. Drinking in the water until she can’t fight, curling her hands into fists that move to hit nothing, only remain still. Her knuckles run over Michelle’s thin shirt, pausing at her hips to push, make Michelle step back, bumping into the wall.

She’s been sad, she thinks they’ve both been. Looking for the wrong things in the wrong places. She doesn’t know what home is supposed to feel like.

There is a whisper, warm breath following after until Michelle’s lips press to the curve of her jaw, to the corner of her mouth. Michelle steadies them both long enough to squeeze Sasha’s hand.

“Okay.”


End file.
